


Heavier

by roundelet



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Chubby Derek, Fluff, M/M, Pining, That's totally requited, Unrequited Love, Weight Gain, also totally requited, belly appreciation, body image issues, fat appreciation, stiles pining for derek's belly, weight loss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-13 17:49:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5711476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roundelet/pseuds/roundelet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Derek returns six years after the fire, Stiles should totally be forgiven for not recognizing him right away. Because he's taller. His shoulders are broader. His face is older and harder. And, also? He's gained weight. Like, a lot of weight.</p>
<p>(A reimagining of Teen Wolf where Derek is a little softer from the beginning.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a belly kink/fat appreciation fic that ran away and developed things like plot, and angst and feels. But, I promise, it's still all just an excuse for Derek to have a belly.

The first time they meet, it's 2005 and it's in the waiting room on the third floor of Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital.  
  
Stiles is sprawled across three side-to-side chairs. It's 3:22 AM and he's utterly failing at sleep. The fluorescent lights are too bright. His hips keep sinking into the hard chair frames. And his arm is too bony to be a comfortable pillow for his newly buzzed skull.  
  
Oh, and also the doctors wheeled his mother off to surgery hours ago and she's never been gone this long before. And his father hasn't come back yet even though he said he'd just be a minute.  
  
A dark haired teenager drops into a chair on the other side of the waiting room. It's just them there but he doesn't spare Stiles a glance. So Stiles just stares at him instead. It gives him something to do other than counting the ticks of the clock.  
  
The boy's scowling at the floor, eyes hidden underneath dark brows. He's wearing a Beacon Hills High t-shirt. His arms are lightly muscled and he kind of looks like an athlete, maybe a lacrosse player, except for the belly pooching over the waist of his jeans.  
  
Stiles has been staring at the boy for three minutes and fourteen seconds (okay, maybe he is still watching the clock -- he has ADHD, so sue him) when the boy finally looks up at him. He seems confused to see someone else there.  
  
It makes Stiles wonder who the boy's waiting for. Because this is the surgery waiting room. And it's not like anyone schedules surgeries for the middle of the night.  
  
The boy's scowl softens into concern, and Stiles knows that look so well these past few months. Hates it. Hates it on this boy in particular. He knows the boy is taking in the sticky tear-tracks down his cheeks, his red and puffy eyes. The fact that he's ten years old and alone in a hospital waiting room on a Wednesday night.  
  
"I'm fine," Stiles snaps at him, clenching his hands into fists.  
  
The boy just stares for another long moment, then extends a hand towards him.  
  
"Come here," he says quietly.  
  
"I'm fine," Stiles repeats, but he's getting up anyways, stumbling around the table of ratty old magazines that Stiles read his way through the last two times he was here.  
  
The boy gestures to the seat next to him. Stiles falls down into it and, to his surprise, he feels the boy wrap his arm around Stiles's shoulders.  
  
Neither of them say anything and eventually Stiles lets his head fall onto the boy's shoulder and finds himself relaxing into something that's not quite sleep, but close.  
  
He mumbles into the boy's t-shirt, "Aren't you going to tell me it's all going to be okay?"  
  
"No," the boy says.  
  
"Good."  
  
Stiles shifts against the boy's shoulder and gazes sleepily down at the stomach poking out below. It's not huge or anything, but it looks soft enough to make a decent pillow.  
  
The boy stiffens and Stiles realizes he said that out loud. Stiles lifts his head to look at him. It's not the worst thing he's unintentionally said to someone. Not the worst thing he's unintentionally said to someone _today_. But, still. He's ten years old and he knows that pointing out that someone's a little bit fat isn't a nice thing to do. Especially if it's to a nice boy who's letting him wipe his tear-stained face on his shoulder.  
  
But, before Stiles can figure out how to phrase an apology that's not 'I'm sorry for wanting to sleep on your belly', the boy huffs out a breath and shakes his head. He relaxes again back into the chair. Rubs his hand back up and down Stiles's arm.  
  
It soothes Stiles almost into sleep. But then he starts to think about how's his mother's still asleep in the operating room at that moment.  
  
So instead he sits back up and says, "Who are you?"  
  
A pause. And then the boy says, "Derek."  
  
"Oh." Stiles nods, pretends that means something to him. "I'm Stiles."  
  
"I know," he says.  
  
"You know?" Stiles repeats.  
  
"You're the sheriff's son," he says. Stiles frowns at him and the boy looks away as he adds, "There's a picture in his office."  
  
"Oh," Stiles says. Derek doesn't seem like a criminal, but there's no other good reason for him to have been in the sheriff's office. If he'd been one of the deputy's kids Stiles would have known him. He decides he deserves a pat on the back for not asking what kind of crime spree he's been on and instead finds himself saying, "You smell like smoke. Did you come from a campfire or something? Freak roasted marshmallow accident? Is that why you're here? Burns from all the gooey goodness?"  
  
Derek's eyes widen and he goes completely still and, oh, _god_. That was so much worse a thing to say than asking if he was a juvenile delinquent.  
  
Because this was Derek _Hale_. Whose name had come across the police scanner yesterday. Whose almost whole entire family had just burned to death.  
  
"I'm sorry," Stiles says lamely, biting his lip. "I'm sorry. I didn't--I."  
  
Derek doesn't look at him. Doesn't say anything. But he pulls Stiles back against his shoulder anyways.  
  
"I'm sorry," Stiles says again. He feels tears well back up in his eyes. And he doesn't know what they're even for, for Derek, for his mom, for his own stupid self who keeps ruining everything.  
  
"Stiles," Derek says. "Just get some sleep, okay?"  
  
  
  
Stiles wakes to his dad tucking one of those scratchy hospital blankets around him. "What did they tell you?" he says blearily.  
  
"It's just going to be a little while longer," his father says as he sits down in the chair to his other side. His voice is tense, even as he adds, "Don't worry about it. It's going to be all right."  
  
Stiles feels Derek's arm tighten around him. It's almost like a hug. Stiles burrows his face back into his shoulder.  
  
  
  
The next time Stiles wakes, his finds himself nestled into his father's side. Derek Hale is gone.  
  
  
  
\---------------  
  
  
  
The second time they meet, it's 2011 and it's in the preserve and Scott's inhaler is missing.  
  
The man in front of them is giving them a dark-browed glare, informing them that this is "private property".  
  
"Uh, sorry, man," Stiles is saying. "We didn't--wait. Shit. You're Derek Hale."  
  
The man's jaw clenches. Which isn't fair, because Stiles should totally be forgiven for not recognizing him right away. He's taller. His shoulders are broader. And his face is older and harder.  
  
And, also? He's gained weight since he left Beacon Hills. Like, a _lot_ of weight. His black leather jacket is open, and Stiles wonders if he even could zip it if he tried. Because he has a seriously big belly now. Like, big enough to stretch his dark shirt taut enough to make out the depth of his belly button. Big enough to push well past the waist of his jeans. Big enough that it actually falls down _over_ the waist of his jeans.  
  
Stiles startles when an object suddenly flies past him. Turns to see Scott catch his inhaler. He glances back at Derek and he's staring right at Stiles, not looking any happier.  
  
Stiles gulps and steps backward. "Thanks for the inhaler, man. And, really, um. Sorry about that."  
  
Stiles isn't even sure whether he's apologizing for encroaching on private property or probably pretty blatantly checking Derek out. Scott's just giving him a confused look and saying, "Come on, I gotta get back to work."  
  
"Yeah. Right." Stiles turns back to Derek and says, "Hey, welcome back, man." And then realizes he's saying it to an empty forest.


	2. Chapter 2

"If you say one word--"  
  
"Oh. You mean, like, hey, dad, Derek Hale's in my room, bring your gun?" Stiles wheezes out. Because getting slammed back against his own bedroom door isn't exactly conducive to breathing.  
  
Derek glares back at him, not making any move to let him go. Stiles tries to slip out of his grip but he's too strong. Which is totally unfair because given how soft the belly currently pressing into him is? Derek definitely didn't spend any of the last six years working out.  
  
Stupid werewolves.  
  
"You planning to let me go anytime soon?" Stiles demands.  
  
Derek actually looks surprised when he looks down and his hand is still fisted in Stiles's jacket, knuckles digging into his chest. He quickly steps away. Stiles slumps back against the door.  
  
"Look, I already said I would help. You don't have to resort to threats of bodily harm," Stiles grumbles.  
  
"Don't I?" Derek bites out. "You're the one who had me arrested."  
  
"No," Stiles says slowly as he steps around him to his computer desk. Derek is clearly a little slow on the uptake. "That was Scott. _I_ was the one who tried to vouch for you."  
  
"You were," Derek says flatly.  
  
"Yes!" Stiles throws up his hands. "But apparently having a body buried in your yard trumps my character witness."  
  
"Character witness. You."  
  
"Oh my god, seriously? Maybe you don't remember that night at the hospital, but I do." Stiles sighs, runs his hand over his head. "You're clearly trying pretty hard to be the villain of this little werewolf drama, but I know you."  
  
"You really don't," Derek mutters. But it doesn't have the heat in it.

The anger's left him deflated. Slouched into himself. Stiles notices distractedly that the posture makes his middle stick out even further. And, also, that his shirt is covered in blood.  
  
"Okay, man, that's blood," Stiles says a little weakly. Because it's going to take a lot more than their adventures so far to desensitize him to that. "You need to get changed."  
  
Derek glances down and says, "It's just my shirt."  
  
"Exactly." Stiles rolls his eyes. "Walking around like that isn't going to help the whole fugitive-on-the-run thing."  
  
Derek huffs what's probably meant to be some kind of protest. But it doesn't stop Stiles from rummaging through his dresser. There's an orange striped polo that his great-aunt sent him for his birthday last year. He wouldn't mind if Derek got blood on that. He holds it up and, okay, even though it's a little big on Stiles, no way is it going to fit Derek. He stuffs it back in the drawer and keeps digging.  
  
"It's fine, Stiles," Derek says quietly. "You probably don't have anything that would fit me."  
  
"Aha!" Stiles exclaims as he pulls his 2010 Beacon Hills Music Festival t-shirt out of the back of the drawer. By the time he and Scott had made it to the free t-shirt booth, they'd only had extra-larges left. He grins and tosses it at Derek. "Have some faith in me, man."  
  
But Derek just frowns down at it.  
  
"Well, put it on." Stiles waves his hand at him. "Did I mention I'm really not all that good with blood?"  
  
Derek looks like he's about to protest again, but then just gives a sigh and moves to pull off his henley.  
  
Stiles, meanwhile, totally fails to follow locker room bro-code. The last time Stiles saw Derek shirtless he was vomiting black bile and had a tourniquet digging into the flesh of his upper arm, begging Stiles to freaking chop it off. So he'd been a little distracted.  
  
But now Stiles has time to sneak a real look at him. The motivation behind his need to ogle a shirtless Derek is probably something that can wait to be examined at a later date.  
  
And, okay, so. The tough-guy leather jackets have apparently implied an amount of muscle tone that Derek doesn't exactly possess. Because he is _soft_. His arms jiggle when he moves. His belly is less round than just heavy, slumping down in front of him, unable to hold itself up. And it folds into thick rolls when he leans down to pick up Stiles's t-shirt.  
  
Stiles finally forces himself to turn away. He sits at his desk and pulls up a search box. Because he can keep focus on the research. It's not like he forgot his adderall this morning.  
  
But then he hears Derek grind out, "It's too tight."  
  
Stiles swivels back around in his chair. And he bites his lip. Because the word 'Festival' is stretched wide across Derek's stomach. Because Derek's having to tug down the hem down to keep it from riding up. Because that same shirt is huge on Stiles.  
  
So, yes. Yes, it is tight. But it's not the shirt's fault--the way Derek's glaring down at it seems to imply.  
  
It's not the shirt's fault in the same way that it's probably not Stiles's jeans fault that they've also become too tight. Over the, um, nether regions. And the explanation for that is another thing that can wait for a later time. A much, much later time.  
  
Because right now he's just really hoping werewolves can't smell arousal. Scott would have mentioned that, right?  
  
Stiles just clears his throat and says, "It's fine."  
  
Derek shoots him a skeptical look, so he adds, "You look really good."  
  
Then replays that in his head and hastily amends, "I mean, the shirt. The shirt looks good."  
  
Derek is just looking more confused.

Stiles sighs and just says, "I don't have anything bigger."  
  
"It's okay," Derek says finally, and he shrugs on his leather jacket. Stiles fails to look away as he very obviously has to suck in his gut to zip it up.  
  
  
  
When Danny comes over, and he's stubbornly resistant to helping him, Stiles wonders if getting his 'cousin Miguel' to take off his shirt again would sweeten the deal. Because it had, for some undefinable reason, totally done it for Stiles. And Stiles had been completely straight until a half hour ago.  
  
But the idea of Danny checking Derek out doesn't sit well with him. And, anyways, Danny probably prefers muscles and six-pack abs. Neither of which is Derek in any shape to provide at the moment.  
  
Stiles pushes the blackmail angle instead.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reasons, the time between the shirt scene and 'I am the alpha now' is extended to several months.
> 
> See end notes for possible triggers.

"What the hell were you thinking, Stiles?" Derek hisses out between heaving breaths.

"Um," Stiles answers.

Blood is still trickling out of Derek's nose. He's crumpled up against the wall of the operating room that he'd freaking _crawled_ to.

Stiles stumbles to his feet. He's not injured, just shaky with leftover adrenaline. The adrenaline that had made him cry out and dive between Derek and Peter Hale. That made him forget he was a human in a werewolf fight.

But Peter hadn't slit his throat or bit him or even thrown him out of the way.

Instead, he'd cackled at Stiles's pathetic attempt to defend Derek. As he turned to leave, he tossed back, "Seriously, Derek. You let yourself get so soft and weak that you need a skinny little kid to protect you?"

Stiles turns back to Derek.

"You're not healing," he says. And darts his eyes away from Derek's glare. His gaze lands on Derek's belly instead. His jacket is unzipped and he's still wearing Stiles's shirt, except it's ridden up to his belly button. Derek's gut is soft and slumped towards the hospital floor, rounding out with each panting breath.

"Alpha wounds." Derek is biting out the words. "Take longer to heal."

"Right. I knew that." Stiles forces his eyes away from Derek's middle because he knows he's being _weird_. He's been being _weird_ all day about this.

He reaches out a hand to help Derek up. But Derek just stares at his outstretched arm for a moment and then sets his jaw. He uses the wall to push himself to his feet.

Stiles bites his lip and says, "You, uh, kind of saved my life back there."

"You were supposed to wait for me." Derek tugs down his shirt and stumbles heavily past him. But Stiles watches his steps get stronger. He's not breathing so hard anymore.

"It's not like I knew your comatose uncle was the alpha, dude," Stiles says as he catches up to him in the hospital hallway.

Derek doesn't say anything.

"You know, you were kind of amazing." Stiles doesn't even know why he says it. Except that it's true. And maybe it's something Derek needs to hear.

But Derek looks back at Stiles and repeats, with a derisive laugh, "Amazing. Right."

 

 

It's the first attack in weeks.

Stiles had been arguing that the alpha must have scampered off to greener pastures. Scott was getting more and more agitated at losing his chance for a cure. But Derek kept insisting that his uncle was still around, still a threat. That they still needed to be ready, be vigilant.

And, well, Derek is right.

The call comes in at 2AM. Stiles has his purloined police radio on his bedside table because his dad is on night shift. He's just drifted into sleep when the call crackles in. Animal attack on Markswain Street.

It takes Stiles two days of scheming and visits to his father at the station (bearing gifts of salads because he knows how to avoid suspicion, this isn't his first rodeo) to download the case files.

He drives to Derek's the next day after school. Scott's too distracted with his latest plan to make up with Allison to join him.

Derek's doing pull-ups on a rafter when Stiles steps into the burnt out house. He has a USB key in one hand, laptop in the other. He resolutely does not look at the lower belly, pale and fleshy where Derek's black V-neck is riding up.

"What are you doing here?" Derek demands, grunting as he drops to the floor and tugs down his shirt.

"Dude, you're, like, working out all the time now," Stiles says. "Don't you have any other hobbies?"

Derek stalks past Stiles and grabs a towel off of a broken table. As he brushes past, Stiles thinks that, seriously, a sweaty guy is not supposed to smell this _good_.

"I need to be better than this. If I have to fight Peter again..." Derek's voices trails off.

As far as Stiles can tell, ever since that night with Peter in the hospital, working out is all Derek even does. At least it's all Stiles has ever caught him doing every time he comes over with a new piece of semi-legally gleaned intel.

Push-ups, or squats, or pull-ups or just coming back from a run. Panting breaths, the sheen of sweat on his skin, the crazy feats of strength and stamina. They're not exactly helping Stiles tamp down his attraction to the guy.

(Especially when Scott had finally confirmed, in the awkwardest of awkward moments, that, yes, werewolves can smell arousal.)

The first time Stiles saw Derek working out had been a few days after the Peter debacle. Just like today, Derek had been doing pull ups over the same rafter. But, back then, anyone who didn't know he was a werewolf would have been stunned to see him do a _single_ pull-up. Let alone one after another, over and over in quick succession. It was an incongruous sight with the obvious lack of muscle to balance out all his extra weight. His belly stretching his shirts tight, flopping up and down with every movement.

If Stiles ever replays that sight during sexy private times? That is a secret he's taking to his grave.

But now, those same shirts only outline Derek's belly, don't stretch taut across it. Most of the time, they easily meet the waist of his jeans, riding up only with the movement. And those jeans are held up by belts now, where before they had definitely been on the wrong side of tight.

Or the right side of tight? This is _confusing_ , okay?

Especially the way Stiles might possibly, on occasion, jerk off to the image of Derek. And, yeah, sometimes he looks like he does now, belly chubby but not sagging under its weight anymore, arms thickening out with muscle.

But sometimes? He looks like he did a few months ago. Soft and heavy and _full_. And Stiles might have accidentally come across pictures online of guys who sported bellies like Derek's. Guys who posted their weights, and, jesus, Derek might have weighed a hundred pounds more than Stiles. Maybe _more_. Just that is sometimes enough to push Stiles over the edge.

And, not that Stiles would ever, ever admit it. Well, not that he would admit to any of this, but especially not that sometimes? He imagines Derek heavier than that. What with the way his clothes had barely even fit when he came to Beacon Hills, he'd probably been heading that direction anyways. Until his sister and the alpha and the almost constant need to fight for his life.

Would his belly have started spreading out into his lap? When would he had given up and sized up to XXL shirts? Would his weight have ever overcome his werewolf strength, would he have ever gotten too heavy to do a hundred pull ups in a row?

Coming over to Derek's after picturing him like that? (And after subsequently showering really, really thoroughly.) Only to see his waistline narrow, his shoulders broaden. It's cognitive dissonance.

And it's not like Stiles doesn't realize he's worst kind of asshole. He's shamelessly objectifying a guy who's living in the burned out remnants of his family's home. Who sleeps on a pile the ratty blankets that pass for a bed. Who believes he's all alone against the world.

He just can't make himself _stop_.

But he can tell him, "You're not alone."

Derek pauses in wiping the sweat off his forehead to frowns at him.

Stiles amends, "I mean, it's not like you'll have to fight Peter alone. You have me."

Derek raises a skeptical eyebrow.

"Fine, jerk. Your loss if you don't want my mad skills. You still have Scott."

"Do I?"

Stiles wishes he could argue back with any confidence. Instead he glances down at where Derek's sweat-soaked shirt clings to his torso and says instead, "I don't even get why you need to be in shape, though. I mean, you're a werewolf. You're supernaturally strong without even trying."

"Alphas are stronger than betas," Derek says.

Stiles sighs and gestures to him. "Well, it's obviously working. I mean, the working out is obviously working."

He wonders how far Derek's going to take this exercise thing. What he'd even look like with chiseled muscles and actual abs. Because Derek's losing a lot of weight but he still looks like he's made to be chubby.

"Stiles, did you come here for a reason?" Derek grits out with a glare. "Because you're not exactly in a position to critique anyone's fitness."

"Hey, I'm in shape," Stiles says defensively. Because, yes, he might be on the skinny side. But lacrosse and the off-season practices have given him a little muscle tone. Nothing like Scott or Jackson or Danny or, really, anyone else on the team except maybe Greenburg.

But still. He doesn't deserve the skeptical look Derek's giving him.

"I am," he says again for emphasis.

But Derek just sighs and sits down at the dust-covered but mostly intact dining room table. "What have you got, Stiles?"

Stiles grumbles to himself as he drops his laptop down on the table.

 

\---------------

 

It's one month later.

Derek is rising up from a crouch over Peter's dead, burnt out body. His profile is dark against the night. His claws are dripping blood.

And there's nothing soft about him when he flashes red eyes and says, "I'm the alpha now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible Triggers: Derek attempts to lose weight by over-exercising.


	4. Chapter 4

"So. What are you going to do now?" Stiles asks as he drops down next to Derek on the old house's porch. The sun is glimmering through the tops of the trees.

Derek shoots Stiles a flat look and says, "What?"

"Are you going to stay? You should stay. You could fix it up. The house, I mean." Stiles gestures behind them. "If you're staying."

"What are you doing here?" Derek demands.

"Nothing," Stiles says. He reaches down to fiddle with some wood splintering off the step.

It's been a week since Derek slashed open Peter's throat, a week since Derek's eyes glowed red for the first time. There are no more Big Bads to fight. So Stiles has no research to bring him. No brilliant plans to hash out.

But Stiles was driving home after lacrosse practice and somehow ended up on the road to the preserve.

Derek's staring back out into the preserve again. He's leaning forward with his arms braced on muscled thighs.

Stiles takes the opportunity to surreptitiously check him out. It looks like he's taken the free time to finally invest in some new clothes, because these are definitely not the stretched tight turned oversized ones he'd brought with him to Beacon Hills.

Over the last few months, Derek's jaw took on a harder edge, his features lost any softness, and his arms, which now bulge out from the sleeves of his new shirt, became kind of the opposite of flabby. So Stiles had naturally thought that Derek had worked off all his extra weight.

But now? His new dark t-shirt and jeans don't hide that Derek's still sporting fifteen, maybe twenty, extra pounds. Because, while he might be hard everywhere else, his belly still pooches forward into a small, chubby curve.

It's still nothing like his belly used to be, back when it had been heavy and soft and dominated his frame. If anything, the extra chub is proportionate to the rest of his body. Like, for example, his muscular shoulders. And arms. And thighs.

And what does Derek's ass look like in jeans that actually fit?

Inquiring minds suddenly need to know.

Derek's cell phone is just sitting there between them on the porch. If Stiles grabs it and tosses it out into the overgrown lawn, will Derek stand up to go after it?

Oh god. Stiles really needs to stop being such a freak and get out of there while his limbs are still intact. So he stuffs his hands into his pockets before they can betray him and says, "I should go."

"Yes," Derek agrees. As Stiles stands up, he catches Derek's light eyes focused up on him in an impenetrable expression.

Stiles sighs. "I guess I'll see you around, then?"

Derek doesn't reply.

 

\---

 

The bundles of blankets and clothes, which make up the apparent extent of Derek's worldly possessions, are gone the next time Stiles shows up at the Hale house.

Stiles tells himself he shouldn't be disappointed that Derek didn't tell him where he was going. It's not like they were friends. Reluctant allies, maybe, at best.

He reminds himself of this again when he finds out that Derek is starting a new pack. One that doesn't include Scott or Stiles.

 

\---

 

Also, because fuck his life, it turns out Stiles was wrong about there being no more Big Bads.

 

\---

 

Stiles brings the Jeep to a stop in a dark parking spot in front of the Sheriff's station. The full moon is starting to rise over the rooftops of the main street. And, shit, they're probably too late. Isaac's in there right now and this plan, which wasn't much of a plan to begin with, isn't going to work.

At least he doesn't see the sheriff cruiser, doesn't think his dad's inside. Because if he is, and Isaac gets all fangy and breaks out of the holding cell--

Stiles suddenly feels a hand grasp his arm through the flannel and he jumps, making his seatbelt catch.

"Fine," he says, though his voice cracks a little. "I'm fine."

"Stiles," Derek begins as he releases his arm.

"Look," Stiles takes a breath and makes himself focus. "The keys to every cell are in a password protected lockbox in my father's office. The problem is just going to be getting past the front desk."

Stiles follows Derek's eyes out the car window. Through the tall windows of the station, Stiles can see the deputy manning the front desk.

"So how do we get past her?" Derek says.

"Okay, first of all? If I had a plan for that part, I wouldn't have said that it was a problem. Secondly. You? You're not going in there."

Derek turns narrow eyes on him. "I was exonerated."

"You're still a person of interest."

"An innocent person."

"Okay, then, an _innocent_ person of interest." Stiles rolls his eyes.

"I'm not letting you go in alone," Derek says firmly.

"Hey, I can handle myself just fine!" Stiles protests.

Derek just arches an eyebrow. "Against an out of control werewolf on his first full moon?"

"Uh. Okay. I might see you point there." Stiles bites his lip and stares back into the station. "Fine, you can distract her, then."

"How?"

"You could punch her in the face?" Stiles says. Derek turns his glare on him again. "Or not. Okay, why don't you just talk to her."

"Talk," Derek says flatly.

"Yeah," Stiles says, warming up to his idea. "It's perfect." He waves a hand. "You'll just do your thing and I'll sneak past--"

"My. Thing."

"You know, the whole, tall, dark, broody thing? I hear that works for some people. I mean. Not me, obviously. But, as an objective observer--"

Derek's jaw seems to tighten in the moonlight. But he doesn't argue, just heaves a deep sigh and goes for the passenger door.

Stiles walks around the jeep and finds Derek fiddling with the hem of his black leather jacket. Which is also new, and fitted to his leaner frame. But he's still having to suck in the extra weight that thickens his waist in order to get it zipped.

The zipper gets stuck, so it takes him a minute, but Derek's efforts are not in vain, because the black leather pretty well camouflages his still-chubby belly.

He averts his gaze when Stiles looks back up. Stiles points with his thumb to the front doors. "Right, well, if you're done with the wardrobe adjustments, I'm just gonna let you do your thing. So I can do my thing. Okay?"

 

\---

 

It works. Of course it works.

Derek's leaning into the counter flirting with Deputy Smith and he has a stupid smile on his face and, wait, Derek has dimples?

Luckily, Stiles doesn't have time to dwell on the way his stomach twists at that. Because fake deputy is dragging him into the holding cell, and Isaac's got a really vicious wolf-face and then his dad's looking at him like he's expecting Stiles to give him all the answers.

"Uh." Stiles points to the hunter passed out on the floor. "He did it."

 

\---

 

"Why do you care so much?" Scott interrupts Stiles's rant. He stuffs his English book into his locker.

"Come on, buddy, you could at least pretend you're going to do the reading." Stiles hands Scott's textbook back to him. "Bring it to Allison's rooftop, bask in the best of English literature under the light of the moon."

"Oh," Scott says, looking sheepish. "I forgot."

"I know, buddy, that's what I'm here for," Stiles claps him on the back as Scott shoves his locker door shut. As they make their way down the hallway, Stiles continues, "And, anyways, I don't care. I'm carefree. Free of cares!"

Scott twists around to give him a strange look.

"I'm just saying, he could have asked me," Stiles says. Then backtracks. "Us. I mean, us. He knew us before he knew Isaac."

"Stiles, what are you even talking about? We don't want to be in Derek's pack. You don't even want to be a werewolf!"

"So?" Stiles flails his arms. Well, one arm. The other is weighed down by three heavy textbooks that didn't fit in his backpack. "After all we've been through, it would have been nice to at least have been asked. This is your fault, you know. If you didn't keep turning him down--"

"Derek's not a good person!" Scott blurts out as they push through the front doors of Beacon Hills High.

"Just because he's not nice doesn't mean he's not good," Stiles argues.

"You can't seriously want me to accept him as my alpha."

"No. I just." Stiles's eyes drift over to see Erica open the door of the passenger seat of Derek's Camaro. Erica is looking right at them as she curves her lipstick-red lips into a smirk. Stiles's shoulders slumped down. "Of course. It figures."

Derek is sitting in the driver's seat, dark shades covering his eyes. But his head is turned towards them and Stiles just knows it's aimed at him when Derek's mouth twists in a cruel smirk.

Stiles thinks about the teenage kid in the hospital whose family had just been murdered. Who'd still reached out and comforted an awkward boy in the waiting room. Who'd let him rub tears and snot on his t-shirt and just held him tighter.

What if that kid from six years ago is gone?

What if Scott's right about Derek? What if Derek was telling the truth when he'd told Stiles he didn't know him at all?

"Come on, let's go." Stiles tugs Scott towards the jeep as the Camaro speeds away.

 

\---

 

Derek crouches in front of the Kanima and snarls as it tosses Erica into the wall.

"Run!" Derek shoves Stiles away. But he can't just run away because--

"Derek, your neck." Stiles's heart pounds in panic as he grabs for him before he can fall. He stumbles under Derek's weight and says, "Where is it--can you see it?"

"I can smell it. Please hurry. Call Scott!"

And, fuck, Derek is too heavy, and Stiles fumbles his phone and he just can't--and Derek falls headlong into the pool.

"No!"

Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_.

He looks despairingly around. His phone's right there. He should get it, just call Scott, it's the smart thing--

But instead he finds himself diving into cold water. He fumbles around, grabbing for Derek's shirt.

"Where'd it go?" he pants out when they finally resurface. He treads water with one arm, the other slung under Derek's shoulders. "You see it?"

"No," Derek grunts out.

"Okay, maybe it took off," Stiles says, still trying to catch his breath.

Then there's a scream from above.

"Maybe not," Derek says hoarsely, chin barely above the water. "Just get me out of here before I drown."

"You're worried about drowning?" Stiles stares at Derek incredulously. "Did you notice the thing out there with multiple rows of razor sharp teeth?"

"Did you notice I'm paralyzed from the neck down in eight feet of water?" Derek grits out at him.

Yes, he fucking noticed. This is too _much_. There's chlorine in his eyes and Derek is a dead weight under his arm, and it's all Stiles can do to splash around, to just try to keep them above water. He digs his fingers into the soft flesh covering Derek's ribs.

"Oh my god, why did you have to lose all that stupid weight," Stiles coughs out through a mouthful of pool water.

"What?"

"Fat has a lower density than water--"

"I did take freshman physics," Derek interrupts crossly.

"I bet you used to float really well," Stiles spits out.

And, okay, it's more than a little mean, calling Derek out for how fat he'd been. But Derek's an asshole. An asshole he's been trying not to fantasize about getting that out of shape again. And--this is not the time for that because the Kanima's slinking along right in front of them and he almost loses his grip on Derek.

"What's it waiting for? Wait--did you see that? I don't think it can swim."

"Stiles--"

"Okay. Okay. I don't think I can do this much longer," Stiles pants out as his hold on Derek starts to slip. He looks desperately for his phone on the pool deck.

"No, no, no." Derek huffs out. "Don't even think about it."

"Look," Stiles says. "Would you just trust me this once?"

"No," Derek says, managing a glare at him.

"God, I hate you so much right now," he spits out, and lets Derek fall as he lunges out of the pool for the phone.

 

\---

 

Derek tries to kill Lydia.

Okay, point to the guy for not _continuing_ to try to kill Lydia when it's obvious she's not the Kanima.

But, still. Derek tries to kill *Lydia*.

 

\---

 

Through the pulses of strobe lights, Stiles follows the admiring eyes of more than one Jungle-goer to an all-too-familiar profile.

Derek's leaning casually against the edge of the bar, surveying the crowd, and obviously planning to ruin all of Scott and Stiles's efforts.

Stiles takes an angry sip of his rum-and-coke-minus-the-rum.

Derek's out without his three cronies for once (still numbering at three, Stiles thinks, though he wouldn't put it past Derek to keep plucking away at the maladjusted teens of Beacon Hills High).

He looks frustratingly at ease with the whole stubble and black leather and bad-boy confidence thing going on. But, after the police station, Stiles at least knows his half-zipped jacket is a self-conscious attempt to hide his small belly. Except, unless it's Stiles's imagination, it's not working as well as it had a few weeks ago. Because the leather now looks strained from the effort, and, though it's not that prominent on his muscled frame, from profile, his middle still unmistakably curves forward.

And, yeah, Stiles might be coming to terms with the fact that he might not so much mind a sexy-times partner not having a completely flat waist.

Not that Stiles thinks of Derek as a potential sexy-times partner. No. Derek is just a--person who is staring back at him.

Stiles smiles weakly and holds up his plastic cup in a toast. Derek just quirks a cool eyebrow.

"Stiles!" Scott hisses next to him, grabbing Stiles's arm and making his coke slosh over the side of his cup. "The Kanima's here."

 

\---

 

"You can't just do this," Stiles exclaims at Derek, halfway into his rant before the door to the subway station even slams shut behind him.

Derek spares him only a momentary glance before he disables Isaac and tosses him across the platform. The huge muscles of his arms are shiny with sweat and raw strength but his small round belly stretches out his tank top and bounces a little over the waist of his jeans.

Jesus. For some godforsaken reason, the thought of Derek when he'd been so much heavier, so much softer, might still dominate his fantasies. But this? He knows he's going to jerk off to this image tonight.

He hates himself for not being able to stop _wanting_ this gorgeous asshole.

"Did you come here for a reason or is this just a social visit?" Derek says as he stalks toward him. Stiles realizes he's been staring. Behind him, Isaac is glaring and Boyd just looks bored. Erica is smirking at him from her perch on some old crates. But that's all she really ever does to him. That and beat him with a tire iron.

"A reason." Stiles shoots him his best glare. He knows it's not exactly intimidating, but he works with what he's got. "You can't just--Look, you kidnapped Lydia! You let Jackson escape! And you totally screwed things up at the Jungle last night--"

"You and Scott let Jackson escape, too," Derek says calmly.

"Not the point!" Stiles flails his arms. "The point is, this isn't working. You don't know what the hell you're doing and you guys are just making things worse. If we all just worked together, maybe we could actually accomplish something."

"So you want to work with me, then?" Derek says. He's just inches away and, god, he'd forgotten how good Derek smells when he's covered in sweat. But there are four werewolves here and Stiles knows they can all hear the hammering of his heart and smell every emotion--shit, just focus, Stiles. Focus.

"Yes," he says. "Yes, I want us all to work together. It's stupid this way."

"Is it?" Derek cocks an eyebrow. "And is that what Scott thinks, too?"

"Of course it is!" Then adds, "Probably. He hasn't used those exact words, but I'm sure if you just came and talked to him--"

Derek stares at him for a long moment, then says, "I have."

"Uh. What?"

"Tell him all he has to do is say yes."

 

\---

 

Scott says yes.

But it turns out he doesn't mean it.


End file.
